


Mrs. Hudson's Guide to Care and Control of Household Pests (When to Call a Professional)

by Vulgarweed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, BDSM, Cunnilingus, Dom Irene Adler, Dom Mrs. Hudson, Domestic Discipline, Femdom, Mild Humiliation, Multi, Naked Male Clothed Female, Paddling, Pegging, Roleplay, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Submission, Threesome - F/F/M, foot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ageing housing stock of central London is picturesque but delicate, and often harbours destructive pests who wreak havoc on the fragile structures. If such damage is spotted, building owners and managers are advised to contact a skilled professional who is well-versed in the control of vandalous creatures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Hudson's Guide to Care and Control of Household Pests (When to Call a Professional)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [Dulcimer Gecko](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko) for the quick beta!

Sherlock knew he was in trouble when the white van pulled up outside and a slim woman in work clothes disembarked with a utility belt clanging and a large pack on her back. Stealthily, he listened as the doorbell downstairs rang and Mrs. Hudson exchanged pleasantries before showing the hired repairwoman up the stairs to 221B.

He held John’s gun in shaking hands, wondering if there was any point in trying to hide it. Doing so would likely make what was to come worse for him.

So he decided to try to hide it, as clumsily as possible, because “worse” was exactly what he wanted.

The door burst open and the repairwoman strode into the room in her paint-spattered jumpsuit and work boots, with Mrs. Hudson right behind her. She gave Sherlock a burning, threatening look with her red lips and steel-grey eyes, her dark hair beginning to fall out of its utilitarian bun but still severe in its drape. Even in working-class disguise, she was obviously dedicated to projecting severity all over today and Sherlock shivered in anticipation as his chin jutted out in a rebellious, petulant mode purposefully designed to encourage further “worse.”

“Here is the damage, right over here,” Mrs. Hudson said as she bustled into the room past Sherlock, letting her shoulder bump him out of the way.

The repairwoman gave a pointed stomp of her work boots, in the jumpsuit that did nothing to hide her trim frame and slim thighs. She gave an irritated little grunt as she ran her thick-gloved hands over the wall, clever fingers finding every single bullet hole, and counting them. There were many more than Mrs. Hudson had known about, for Sherlock’s moods did not always coincide with her presence.

“Sorry to have to tell you ma’am, but this was no accident,” she finally said, her false accent so East End it was almost New Jersey. “Your wall was shot in cold blood, on purpose.”

Mrs. Hudson gasped. “Murder?”

“Well, not yet, ma’am. Your wall’s going to need a lot of repair but it’s not dead. Say - !” and then She turned around to face Sherlock, and her face was a complex polyphony of role-play, briefly a masterpiece of the Cunning Ingenue. “Mrs. Hudson, don’t you rent rooms to the famous Sherlock Holmes? Can’t he find out for you who was the fiend who cruelly shot your poor wall for no reason?”

“Let’s not waste anyone’s time,” Sherlock said. “Mrs. Hudson certainly knows.”

“Oh, of course I do too, Sherlock,” said the repairwoman, immediately picking up the unloaded semiautomatic from under the stack of high-res photos of decades-old frozen bodies from Mt. Everest. “Cold cases?”

“Very cold,” Sherlock said. “And lacking in oxygen.”

“That’s a danger, with these old walls,” the repairwoman said sternly. “There are old gas lines set in here, haven’t been used in 80 years but they’re still there. Fire’s still a risk, and carbon monoxide leaks; everyone goes to sleep and nobody wakes up. You don’t know where the lines are, do you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, standing taller as she stalked towards him.

“And yet you still think it’s okay,” she said, gesturing with the empty gun, coming close enough to wave it under his chin, “to shoot off whenever you’re bored.”

“I. Am. Frequently. Bored.” Sherlock declared, turning up the volume on his brattiness.

“Well, here’s the bad news, ma’am,” the repairwoman said sharply to Mrs. Hudson, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken at all. “I could fix the wall, but it’s not going to last. We need to go to the source of the problem.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Mrs. Hudson said, though the look on her face said anything but. “Well, there’s no point in putting it off, dear, let’s get on with it.”

“I had hoped you’d say that,” said the repairwoman, opening the top buttons of her jumpsuit to reveal just a hint of the sleek black camisole beneath. “Pardon me, but it helps me swing a little more freely. I’m afraid I do sometimes work up a little sweat.” She was talking to Mrs. Hudson but her eyes were fixed on Sherlock. Cobra and mongoose had gazed upon each other with more sincere indifference.

“Ladies _glow,_ dear,” Mrs. Hudson said primly.

“That’s not all that will be glowing soon,” said the repairwoman, at once standing up ramrod-straight and calling up the natural queenly charisma of her true profession. “Off with that dressing gown, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock started at once to object, as was his habit, but a stern look from repairwoman Irene Adler quelled whatever he was about to say in his throat. With a pointed, slightly worried look at Mrs. Hudson, he peeled the royal blue silk from his shoulders.

“Oh, you know perfectly well she’s not going anywhere, Sherlock,” Irene purred. “After all, it’s _her_ you owe the apology, not me. She just hired me to . . . facilitate.” With a graceful motion, Irene removed the heavy tool kit from her pack and opened it.

Involuntarily Sherlock’s eyes widened although none of the contents really surprised him. “I don’t suppose any of that is industry standard for repairing antique wall-plaster.”

“Wouldn’t pass union muster, no,” she said with a smirk.

“Isn’t that rather . . . large?” he said, pointing to one implement in particular.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with some very recalcitrant cases,” she said. “Termites and black mold are one thing, compulsive vandalism quite another.”

“And you think the answer is to commit vandalism upon my person?” Sherlock said, eyebrow arched.

“No permanent damage, guaranteed,” Irene said as she perused her collection of instruments of expensive consensual torture. “Unlike the wall, you’ll have the same number of holes you started with.”

“Hm. Reassuring,” Sherlock said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t. “No piercings, then?”

“That’s a specialised service,” Irene said. “We can work up to that if you like. But you’re not the one paying the bill, so I’m currently only hired for some very effective . . . basics. We’ll determine as we go if any additional work is necessary.”

“So Mrs. Hudson is your real client,” Sherlock said, suddenly feeling very exposed. It wasn’t just the slight draught that was hardening his nipples in a way that was so visible through his worn-thin shirt; and though the perch of his pyjama bottoms on the handles of his slim hips was always precarious, they now hid far less from the eye than he would have liked.

Not that he would be allowed to keep them on very long anyway.

There was no point in looking to the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson for rescue then - usually one to rush to diffuse an awkward moment at the almost certain risk of making it worse, now she seemed to be fully embracing it.

Irene nodded approvingly as Mrs. Hudson moved to Sherlock’s own favorite chair and looked at him with an appraising gaze as though she were deciding whether a possible purchase of furniture might clash with the wallpaper.

A very coveted purchase for furniture, perhaps, for her expression was not only appraising, but pleased. Even, dare he think it, lusty.

“I think we should start out easy, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said to Irene. “I think he’s a little more innocent than you or I.”

“I agree, and I think I have just the thing,” said Irene, reaching in her toolbox for a cheap and plain but solid wooden paddle. “What do you think of this? He was a schoolboy at one point, after all.”

“Well, in the Florida schools the ones they used had holes in them, so there’d be less wind resistance as they could swing faster. I always thought that was cruel. This will do nicely, I should think. He’s a grown man, for all he acts like he isn’t sometimes.”

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, for all this talking about him in the third person was just a bit of a bruise to his ego, and he did it instinctively. But he also regretted it as soon as he’d done so, for it drew the attention of both women to him, and he’d forgotten he was not wearing the armour of a tailored suit.

His worn cotton pyjamas felt almost nonexistent. They were no shield at all. Especially since they were now standing out a little bit from his front - the conversation about implements, so impersonal, had an effect upon him.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling around the coffee table to give Sherlock a thorough looking-over. “Now, I just want to be sure this is all right with you. If you don’t think you can go through with what we have in mind, you don’t have to. I could just make you write ‘I will not shoot bullet holes in the walls’ a few thousand times instead, longhand, and…”

“Do you really think, Mrs. Hudson, with all I’ve done and been through, that I can’t handle a little -” he wrinkled his nose as he searched for exactly the wrong phrase - ‘S & M’?”

“Really, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said, “Even I know how to use the Google better than that.” Their eyes met, and clearly they were both just one poorly-timed innuendo away from a giggle fit, so Mrs. Hudson decided that all was well, for she also certainly knew how to read a half-erection that was hoping to grow. 

“I think we should proceed then,” she said to Irene. “I know you warned me we might have to go deep.”

“Yes, I thought so,” Irene said, tapping the paddle on her hand as if to warm it up. “How many bullet holes are there?”

“I didn’t count,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Should I?”

“Yes,” Irene said. “I think we need to know. SHERLOCK!”

“Yes?” Sherlock said, much too quickly.

“The coffee table,” Irene said. “It looks sturdy, you haven’t broken it yet. Get on your knees and bend over it. NOW.”

Sherlock obeyed as if no other possibility had occurred to him.

“Seventeen on this side,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And five more over here.”

“Twenty-two,” Irene said, shaking her head. “And you didn’t even think of reimbursing Dr. Watson either, did you?” She prodded Sherlock’s legs with her foot, nudging them farther apart. “You owe him. Ammo is expensive. Shall I give him my number in case he needs my help to make you pay up?”

“I think he can probably take care of that himself,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Well, I think he lets you push him around a little too much sometimes.”

“Assertiveness training needed, got it,” said Irene. She reached down and snapped the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, raking her nails lightly down his lower back to watch him shiver.

“On or off?” she asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, off, certainly,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Unless he absolutely objects.”

“Er, no,” Sherlock said as Irene hitched his thin t-shirt a little ways up his back. “I . . . don’t object. Not absolutely.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Irene said warmly, giving his clothed rear a little pat before she took hold of the loose trousers and yanked them down to his knees.

Mrs. Hudson gave a pleased little gasp as she bathed her eyes in the sight. “Oh, that is a lovely bum,” she said. “So round and pale.”

“It won’t be pale when we’re done,” Irene said. Sherlock quivered.

“Now come around here, Mrs. Hudson,” Irene said. “You’re the one who needs the apology, so I’m going to give him just one or two little spanks and let you do the heavy lifting.”

“I know my way round a paddle and a pretty arse, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Irene replied. She gave Sherlock’s left cheek a light stroke with the paddle, more for the sake of seeing the firm flesh jiggle and testing his responses than inflicting any pain. He gave a squeaky little gasp, perfectly aware that Irene was looking between his thighs for evidence of enjoyment, and that she was certainly going to find it.

“Oh, do the other side too,” Mrs. Hudson said with unbecoming eagerness. “I’m a big believer in symmetry. I try to do it in the household too. Fing shway. It’s Chinese. But of course the boys will always mess it up.”

The blow on the right side was a little bit sharper nonetheless.

“So you’ll get the hang of it,” Irene said. “The underside’s a bit more sensitive. Most subs like to warm up first, and allow plenty of time in between strikes for the sensation to build. There is some disagreement, though. The sting becomes more intense as you go, so some like the harder strokes first, because then the lighter ones at the end seem to have nearly as much impact. I don’t think our Sherlock even knows his preferences yet, poor lamb. But the buttocks are a tough part of the body, so don’t be afraid to give a good hard whack, especially if he tries to give you any sass.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a laugh that was shockingly sinister. “I think I know what I’m about. Don’t you think so too, Sherlock?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sherlock said, and then was appalled at his own instincts.

“All right, Mrs. Hudson, it’s your turn then.”

“I played a spot of cricket as a girl,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock was beginning to squirm, as anticipation of pain settled into him and he closed his eyes and took deep breaths with the air of a man desperate to not seem nervous.

Mrs. Hudson soothed him with a soft pass of her hand down his lower spine. “Don’t be frightened, dear.”

“Oh, I disagree,” said Irene, making a great racket of rummaging in her tool box, well aware that Sherlock couldn’t see what she was doing. “It’s best if he is a little frightened.”

“Be careful, Hudders,” Sherlock said. “Don’t you have ‘a hip’?”

That bought him a stinging smack and he yelped involuntarily.

“That’s why I swing from the waist and shoulders,” Mrs Hudson said. “Are you going to talk back again?”

“Maybe.”

She swatted him again, harder, a sharp stroke from below that caught a small strip of thigh, and he squeaked. “For that, we haven’t started the count yet. I was just warming up. Used to have to do a lot of warm up exercises when I was a dancer, you know.”

Sherlock was already panting, as much from shock as from pain. Mrs. Hudson had a mean swing, and she’d hit him at an angle that was too cruel to be accidental - especially when she repeated it precisely on his other cheek, and he dug his fingernails into the coffee table surface. Gruesome crime-scene photographs spilled down between his heaving chest and the floor, one of them hanging for just a moment on his up-curved erection before sliding down at his knees.

“Start counting now, Sherlock,” Irene said.

He caught his breath as the paddle came down again - and he’d tensed up, and so was the worse for it. “One!” he yelped. With “two” he tried to regain his vocal dignity and nearly succeeded. “Three” came swift on the heels of two, and on the same side, which made him squeak, and Irene made approving noises. “Four” and “five” were both two-syllable words as Sherlock jumped slightly at the blows and whined at the growing burn of his flesh in between.

“Stop for a moment dear,” Irene said. “Admire what a lovely pink he is.”

“Oh, that is nice,” Mrs. Hudson said. “There were pink hydrangeas at our house in Miami nearly that colour. A subtle blushing shade. Too subtle, if you ask me. I’d like him more like the colour of the phlox. That was stronger and more vivid.”

“I’ve never been very fond of pink,” Irene said. “Except in this context. As soon as I saw that pale skin of his I knew it would turn a beautiful shade.”

“Let’s make him even lovelier,” Mrs. Hudson said, and brought the paddle down again.

Now Sherlock could hear her breathing heavily as exertion was beginning to manifest. He sneaked a glance and saw she’d unbuttoned her prim blouse; he saw cleavage beneath a rather surprising deep purple lace bra. Her hair had gone wild and her face flushed. He closed his eyes because his own reaction to that sight was rather shocking and overwhelming and he had quite enough sensation to process already as he counted out blows six, seven, and eight.

The slaps of wood against skin sounded almost distant to his ears now, like gunshots at a distance, and the reactions of his nerves and the involuntary bouncing and twitching of his flesh tugged at his mind and nearly made him nearly lose his count twice. The pain was not unbearable, not at all, but the secondary sensations, the by-products of his agitated nerves, were nearly too much. His whole body felt flushed and hot; sweat prickled at hairline and armpits and the center of his chest, and everything that remotely resembled erectile tissue was on full alert. His own voice appalled him as he counted out the numbers carefully, boyish and broken.

Though he tried to keep straight and steady, it was easier to relax between blows, to let his head drop between his shoulders til his forehead nearly touched the table. Clear droplets fell from his skin and his eyes, and glancing down he could see that one from the head of his cock was about to make a break for it as well. He aimed for meditative breathing as he counted ten and eleven, and finally shivered and moaned in relief as Mrs Hudson said, panting, “I think we both need a little break before the next set, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped. “Yes, please, ma’am.”

“Oh my good boy, you’re doing so well,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, stroking his hair like he was a beloved show poodle.

“Oh, look at that colour!” Irene said happily. “You do know how to bring out the best in him, Mrs. Hudson.” She stepped away for a moment to the kitchen, careful once again to make a good deal of noise knowing Sherlock couldn’t see her.

“I’m not sure if that’s kind or cruel,” Mrs. Hudson said when she saw what Irene had in her hand. 

“I had it in mind to be both, really,” Irene said. “He’s been very naughty as you know, but he’s also been good for us.”

Sherlock made a strangled sound as a new sensation began at his coccyx and continued downward -- so sharp he thought for a moment of alarm that it was a blade, but no - it was smooth and round, and burned cold and too stinging to soothe when applied to his fevered skin. The tiny trickle of water down the crack of his arse raised gooseflesh all over him. More followed as the ice cube melted, dripping down his perineum and balls. It tickled and stung.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m sorry!” he muttered.

“Don’t apologise yet,” she said, tugging his hair a little. “It’s too soon, we’re only halfway done.”

“Well, you know me,” Sherlock said, realising that endorphins were flooding his brain and nothing out of his mouth was to be trusted now. Not like that knowledge could stop him. “I’ve always been impatient.”

“Was that sass?” Irene asked as she continued her tortuous swirls with the ice cube.

“Not exactly,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Dangerously close to it, though.”

“I thought so,” Irene said. There was a slurp and a crunch as she popped what was left of the ice into her mouth. Her hands then fell fully onto Sherlock’s arse, with a light squeezing, and a scratching at his tender skin, and a lewdly careful separating of his cheeks. “I know a serious case when I see it, Mrs. Hudson. It’s a good thing you called me. Your average handyman wouldn’t know what do with a job like this.”

Sherlock had nearly fallen into a swoon as Mrs. Hudson petted him, and was startled back into alertness by the tiniest brush of a fingertip - lubed and latex-covered, he realised with both arousal and alarm - giving a ticklish butterfly brush to his anus. “This isn’t a surface issue, I’m afraid,” Irene crooned. “I’d recommend going deeper, if the subject doesn’t crumble at the thought.” She gave the tiniest little push, and then took her delicate finger away as Sherlock clenched. Her voice grew serious and no-nonsense. “It’s up to you, Sherlock. I think it would be . . . helpful. But you must know you are free to refuse.”

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We’d never want to hurt you, dear. Well, any more than a good old-fashioned romp we all agree to might.”

“I saw your toolbox,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and grainy. “Yes. Yes, you vixens with the village-panto-level acting skills, have your wicked way with me. But . . . not the really huge one, all right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Irene said. “You’re delicate. I have just the thing.”

“Are you going to let him get away with that lip?” Mrs. Hudson asked indignantly.

“Oh no,” Irene said. “We’re only halfway through the strikes, and that tongue of his has clearly been idle long too long. Break’s over, back to work. How’s the arm, Mrs. Hudson?”

“I am certainly good for eleven more,” she said confidently, mirth in her voice and a sweet tang of her sweat in the air as she gave a demonstrating swing.

“Good and then Sherlock will give you the treat you’ve earned, won’t you, Sherlock?” Irene gave him a little spank with one hand as she teased him with the tip of an object. Sherlock quickly calculated - the silicone anal plug with dull-pointed tip and graduated ridges. Not too large, but he’d certainly feel it.

“Oh, what a clever little device,” Mrs. Hudson cried. “You must tell me where you got it.”

“I certainly will,” Irene said. “Since I think we ought to switch to the leather paddle for the second round, I just want something he’ll feel even when he isn’t being swatted. Muscle flexing is enough to cause some amazing sensations, but I think we can add even more to it.”

Sherlock desperately fought the urge to look around behind him as his keen ears registered a rustle of nylon webbing and a clink of metal rings. _Oh God._ His cock gave a heroic lurch upward.

“Anal plug is a dreadful name for it, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson said as she watched Irene teasing her sweet shivering Sherlock with it. “It sounds like an unpleasant health condition.”

“Too true,” Irene said. “Would you like to do the honours?”

“I would,” Mrs. Hudson said, realising it was true. She saw Sherlock’s quick stolen glances and let her eyes linger on his for a moment only before running her gaze down his long spine.

She thought perhaps she ought to be ashamed for enjoying this so much - voices in her head told her a woman of her age had no business enjoying this sort of company of a beautiful woman and man young enough to be her children. But they were _not_ her children, and no one was unwilling. She wasn’t doing a damn thing wrong, and Sherlock and Irene both were assuring her of that. She bent behind Sherlock, hearing her knees creak only a little, and placed a kiss at the base of Sherlock’s spine, making sure to leave a lipstick print.

“Are you ready, Sherlock?” she asked as she took the base of the small but wickedly designed silicone anal probe from Irene. “I’m just going to put this in you, nice and slow, and then I’m going to spank you again. With this nice wide leather paddle. Irene says it won’t hurt as much. Just keep you all tingly and warmed up. This is what’s really going to make you scream when it moves around a little inside you. Then we’re going to put the base in this harness here. It’s designed for people who don’t have a, er, penis naturally. So we can _fuck_ you.”

Sherlock groaned and trembled and seemed to wiggle his arse farther towards the women, spreading his legs in what certainly seemed to be invitation. “Use your words, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I know how much you love to talk. Just one word, yes or no?”

“Yes,” he said between gritted teeth.

“Yes _what?”_

“Yes ma’am. Yes _please!”_

“Aww,” Irene cooed as Mrs. Hudson slid the lubed tip of the toy into Sherlock, carefully, lovingly.

“Beautiful,” Mrs. Hudson said as she played with it, watching Sherlock’s whole body respond to the slightest push in or pull out.

But the corner of her eye she saw another gaze, a steady one - Irene Adler’s cool grey eyes were dilated and hungry, and it was not Sherlock she was regarding so. Irene had stripped open all the front buttons of her grey workman’s jumpsuit, and now Mrs. Hudson could see the clean, trim lines of her fair skin and black lace camisole - very expensive material, Italian cut. She looked so beautiful in that contrasting ensemble, and Mrs. Hudson blushed (for the first time this evening for emotional reasons) to see unexpected desire on Irene’s stunning face.

“I- I know - “ Mrs. Hudson said to Irene. _This is a job for you and you are so very good at it,_ she thought.

Her thought was interrupted by a hand over hers. Small gloved fingers twining with hers and a joining in of her slow motion teasing Sherlock with the plug.

Mrs. Hudson gasped, disbelieving, as Irene moved in close, eyelashes batting and her look questioning. And sighed as Irene read her signals correctly, and that other slim manicured hand slipped through Mrs. Hudson’s hair, reeling her in authoritatively.

The kiss that followed was a warm burst of glory in Mrs. Hudson’s mind as the two women’s mouths slid together in sliding, licking closeness.

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes for just a moment, just as she glimpsed a movement up ahead: Sherlock perceiving that something might have distracted his harsh mistresses long enough that he could get away with watching for a moment. She felt rather than saw Irene’s arm move, giving Sherlock a forceful little warning thrust, and there was a similar sharp motion with her tongue in Mrs. Hudson’s mouth.

“He’s watching us,” Irene said as she drew back just a little with soft lingering tugs of her red lips. “How do we feel about that?”

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It might be educational for him.” Sherlock made a small strangled noise, and Mrs. Hudson rested her hand on his hip. “Are we getting distracted, just a little?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Irene conceded as she lifted a hand to Mrs. Hudson’s chin and turned her face back in again for one more kiss. “This isn’t really part of the procedure.” She moved her mouth slowly down Mrs. Hudson’s jaw. “I do think it’s a nice touch, though. I’ve never been one for just the bare minimum.”

“Well, Sherlock is impatient,” Mrs. Hudson said. “So I understand how making him wait is helpful. We just don’t want him to cool off too much.”

“Are you telling me how to do my job, Mrs Hudson?” Irene said with a little edge to her voice - though with a smile in her eyes - and a tiny nip of her teeth at Mrs. Hudson’s ear.

“Offering suggestions, that’s all,” Mrs. Hudson said as Irene’s free hand trailed down her chest, red-lacquered nail lingering around the trim of her bra. “Sometimes someone who’s been around a long time might have some insight - _oh!”_

“So true,” Irene said.

There was a loud, slightly squeaky throat-clearing from the other end of Sherlock’s stretched-out torso. Quick as a snake, Irene snatched that leather paddle to hand and gave him a swat before the echo died. The end of his imperious ‘ahem’ turned into a gravelly sort of wheeze.

“This is for you really, Mrs Hudson, so you can neglect him a bit more if that’s your pleasure,” Irene said, reaching over to give the base of the little dildo a slow turn and wiggle. “Or - you can continue to make him sorry. I must say, at this point, I do recommend a refresher course, he seems to be getting a little more relaxed than he should be.”

Sherlock started to protest, and then Irene did something with her hand that made him gasp.

“He has been a good boy, I have to say,” Mrs Hudson said, accepting the handle of the leather paddle from Irene and giving Sherlock’s right arse cheek and lower thigh a long, sweeping caress before flicking her wrist a little to give something that wasn’t a blow so much as a meaningful flap. She decided she liked the feel of that, and gave another rolling slap with a bit more authority, rewarded by a flex of Sherlock’s spine and a heave of his ribs and what sounded suspiciously like a happy sigh. “Does it count if he likes it so much?” Mrs Hudson asked worriedly.

“I’d think it would count all the more,” Irene said. “But it does mean you’ll have to keep an eye out for future damage in case the problem returns.”

“Oh, we can’t have that,” Mrs. Hudson said in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite and gave Sherlock another thwack on the left side this time. Sherlock’s muscles flexed involuntarily, clenching the toy inside him, and he gave a low moan, dropping his head between his shoulders, nearly to the surface of the coffee table as he wriggled for more.  
“Thirteen,” Sherlock managed to groan.

“Oh, that’s very good,” Irene said. “But if you’re still lucid enough to count, I think we’ve got a bit lazy. Back up!” She commanded, moving out of the way, her hand in Mrs. Hudson’s. Sherlock did, and Mrs. Hudson couldn’t help but notice the small puddle of sweat he’d left on the polished surface. She’d make him clean it, the messy boy.

“Crawl over to your chair, Sherlock,” Irene said. “Hands and knees. Don’t even think of getting in it.

With a creaking groan, Sherlock dragged himself away from the support of the coffee table and put all the weight of his upper body on his long arms, nearly stumbling. Irene gave him stroke number fourteen to hurry him along, and watched with satisfaction as his muscles twitched around the base of the plug. He really was a lovely colour, and lean as he was, he still managed a fetching jiggle.

Mrs. Hudson was also watching appreciatively. “I think you should take the throne, Mrs. Hudson, if you’re content to let me handle things at this end,” said Irene.

“Oh, you’re doing a splendid job,” Mrs. Hudson said as she sat in the leather chair and watched Sherlock approach her on hands and knees, pausing just a moment to shudder at strokes fifteen and sixteen.

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, unsure how close he was allowed to get to Mrs. Hudson sitting imperious and regal in his favourite grey leather chair, her demure skirt slightly tucked under one leg, and hinting at black sheer stockings that were anything but. As he drew closer, she lifted one foot and pointed it gracefully - former dancer, of course - and lifted it to his shoulder, flexing her silk-clad toes in his hair. Stroke seventeen seemed to punish his hesitation, so Sherlock nuzzled his cheek along the line of her instep. “Touch her,” Irene commanded.

Shaking but undaunted, Sherlock shifted his weight to curl one large hand around Mrs. Hudson’s slender ankle, tracing its bones and tendons with first his fingers, and then his lips, and then his tongue. The texture of her stockings was odd against his mouth, but the warmth of her skin and the responsiveness of her happy sighs was reward in itself - the carrot to the stick Irene was delivering - and Irene leaned forward to give the base of the toy a slow rotating wiggle that made Sherlock moan and bite down slightly on the curve of Mrs. Hudson’s big toe. He gave it a placating suck, and Mrs. Hudson gave a happy, throaty little sound of her own as she let him worship one foot and then the other.

_Slap._

“Eighteen,” Sherlock murmured as he bent his hand up and around the firm swell of her calf, leaning forward towards her thighs as she held him back a little with both feet curved lightly around his neck.

Sherlock seemed to emerge from his haze and study her - her flushed face, her lipstick smeared from Irene’s kiss and the top of her dress unbuttoned, unexpectedly elegant bra nestling a cleavage that heaved with deep breaths and betrayed a light sheen of sweat, lightly musky undertone to her perfume. How he became sure that in that thin cloth her nipples would be hard, beneath her skirt she would be wet, certain she enjoyed watching his torments and his responses, aroused by the sight of his body displayed for their use, by his subservient posture, by his careful attentions to her feet and legs - part lover, part masseur, part investigator of intricate anatomy.

He shivered under the sting of stroke nineteen, far beyond the surface pain now as endorphins suffused his mind. He barely reacted when Irene drew close, and he heard the rustle of nylon and the clink of metal rings and the rustle of fabric as she stripped all the way down to her form-fitting catsuit, even as he felt the slight pull and tug of the silicone probe in his body as Irene snapped the ring of the harness around its flared base and fastened the straps around her waist and hips.

He studied Mrs. Hudson’s responses instead, the dilation of her eyes, the careful attention to everything Irene was doing. Irene used slap twenty to turn Sherlock’s hips slightly and her hand to arch his back to give Mrs. Hudson the best view possible as Irene began to fuck him slowly. Sherlock groaned for a minute, and then leaned up just a little, wrapping both hands around Mrs. Hudson’s knees to lean on them for a moment, adjusting to the new increase in sensation.

She was so kind and welcoming around him, in front of him, and her hand in his hair both soothed him and compelled him. “So good for us, Sherlock,” she crooned. “How can you be so bad and so good at the same time?” She giggled a little, like a girl. “I used to think I liked bad boys. I suppose I still do, but they’ve got to have a lot of good in them. You get better at spotting that, with age. You’re good, Sherlock.”

“You don’t really know yet if he’s good or not,” Irene said, thrusting into Sherlock with a little snap and feeling him shiver, the nails of one hand digging lightly into his reddened arse. “So far so good. So far he’s so happy, aren’t you, Sherlock?”

He gave a little grunt of assent as he studied Mrs. Hudson up close, and his scrabbling hands inched up her skirt. “But this isn’t about you, Sherlock, not really,” Irene said. “This is all about _her._ This is for her. Are you going to do your best for her?”

The leather paddle made one slow trip around the curve of Sherlock’s hip, down to the undercurve of his arse and the back of his thigh. Irene still rocked her hips slowly, pausing a moment to give the plug’s base a little more lube on the outstroke. Then she pressed in, and suddenly curled her hand around Sherlock’s cock - heated and aching and fully erect, bouncing up lightly against his belly, wet at the tip. “And if you are very very good, we might even let you come. But certainly not before _she_ does.”

Sherlock moaned piteously and thrust back against Irene, hissing at the motion of the toy’s curves within him as Irene gripped his hip and gently pushed him forward, into the embrace of Mrs. Hudson’s legs. He dared to glance back and see the two women gazing at each other in awe, in lip-bitten lust, in exhilaration.

“Come on now, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly. “Don’t be afraid. You can do just what you like, and I know you’ll do a good job.” Her legs wrapped loosely around him, and she rested one foot on his shoulder. He turned and kissed his way up the inside of her leg. He reared up just a little, spreading his knees to stay low enough for Irene to stay deep inside him with her strap-on; she braced a hand on his belly to bring him close, only letting his cock brush the backs of her fingers on rare occasion. Irene gave him stroke twenty-one as he seemed to dither, and then hummed appreciatively as he ran his hands up the outside of Mrs Hudson’s legs, caressing her thighs and pushing her skirt up to her waist as she slouched down in the chair, nudging her hips towards his face.

Mrs Hudson wore stockings and strong black suspenders, and he gasped in genuine awe at the pale silkiness of the band of bare thigh above the stocking tops - the incredibly soft skin he explored with fingers and lips and tongue and teeth, nuzzling with his sharp cheekbones and jaw, letting the dim hint of stubble rake her where she was most sensitive. She slid her hands through his hair, toying with his curls, and began to move slowly, undulating her hips suggestively.

Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson’s expectant, rapturous face, and let her see his moment of laughter when he slid his hands up the sides of her black lace knickers, his exact point of realisation that she had slid them on over the suspenders rather than under - a dead giveaway of a woman expecting to get off with someone.

She gave him a little conspiratorial wink. “I was an _exotic_ dancer, my dear.” She gave her hips a suggestive roll and looked down at his sweaty, desperate face. Elation surged through her as she read his desire, and she gave in to it - oh, what did it matter that she was old? She was as wet as she’d ever been, throbbing inside, so ready, and she’d kept herself up, nicely trimmed and really hardly any grey down there yet. He’d see. He’d taste. With trembling hands up the side of her knickers, Sherlock curled his fingers around the waistband from within and started to pull them down. 

And then changed his mind. With Irene still working behind him with slow serpentine ripples that shook him from within with every stroke, Sherlock’s eyes got a glint of that calculating gleam, and he bent his head instead to her lower belly. Mrs. Hudson pulled her skirt all the way up and out of the way then, pushing forward, not caring what he saw of her as he kissed her through the thin fabric and lightly bit at the lace, plucking it away from her skin as he went down. Mrs. Hudson gave an approving ladylike moan, and then a rawer one, clenching her hands in Sherlock’s wild curls as he teased her mons through the lace with his lips and his tongue, daring to nip ever so gently with his teeth at the soft rises of her thighs. 

“Ooohh, Sherlock,” she cooed as the very tip of his tongue found the slit where her outer lips met through the knickers, and he licked hard enough to rub the rough lace against her just right. Her legs parted wider, involuntarily, and one leg’s muscles clenched around Sherlock’s shoulder, bringing him even closer in.

“He doing good for you, Mrs. Hudson?” Irene purred.

“Oh yes, oh yes.”

“Oh good.” Irene said. “Then I don’t feel so bad about this, because he does have an amazing arse and I hope you don’t mind if I really use it.”

“Not at all - oh!” Mrs. Hudson cried.

Then finally Sherlock did grow impatient, and with a little growl he pulled that little slip of frippery free of her body, and as she lifted her hips to help it off - and pushed it the rest of the way down, pulling one leg through and letting the knickers dangle off her other ankle - Sherlock cradled her arse in his big hands, squeezing and holding it firm, and moaned like a starving man as he dived between her bare thighs, his thumbs rising up to open her to his gaze.

Their eyes met again, and he ran his fingers around her edges, reverently, holding her parted and _sniffing_ for heaven’s sake. Stroke twenty-one from Irene echoed through the room. Sherlock pushed Mrs Hudson’s thighs even farther apart, and kissed her there, his tongue sliding easily through her wetness and making slick sounds in the room, louder to Mrs. Hudson’s ears than all their loud breathing, louder than Irene’s hips slapping Sherlock’s arse as she thrust into him deep and steady. Irene held still for a moment, slowing her motions to watch.

Sherlock closed his eyes and devoted himself fully to his task, tracing Mrs. Hudson’s folds and ridges with his tongue with careful detail, dipping into her cunt and soaking up her wetness with raw, unashamed little slurps. Her hands in his hair guided him, lifted him, turned him, placed him where she wanted him. He still twisted and dodged and tried to tease, placing occasional little nipping kisses to her inner thighs, her creases where lightly-haired flesh met the joins of her hips. But always he came back to her center, harder and faster each time, and each time he spent more time on the pulsing rise of her clit. He fastened his lush lips around it and sucked, throbbing with his tongue.

“Oh, oh Sherlock that’s good, so good,” Mrs. Hudson gasped, genuinely surprised, for it had never occurred to her that Sherlock had much acquaintance with female anatomy. “Your beautiful hands, Sherlock, use your hands, touch me, put your fingers in me.”

“Mmm,” was all Sherlock said for that was all he could say, and he brought his hands around over her hips and thighs, delicately toying with her and then pushing one long finger into her, curling it and sliding it as he sucked her clit, unconsciously replicating the beat of Irene’s thrusts. His fingers moved slow but his tongue moved fast.

He felt the sweaty press of Irene’s hips against him as she leaned in closer to watch. He heard the wet sounds his mouth and fingers made as he explored every inch of Mrs Hudson’s vulva and devoured her taste and scent with all his senses, long drags with his tongue up and down to the place where his fingers entered her, a little lower down as her hips canted up and she made breathy cooing moans, louder in pitch when he got it just right and returned to her clit after a brief sojourn away. Sherlock sucked eagerly, feeling her wetness cover his lower face and rush over his tongue, rotating his fingers deep inside her and savouring the quivering of her thighs as her legs tightened around his head, holding him in place. 

Irene had not forgotten she owed Sherlock one strike still, and the loud slap of the leather paddle coincided with Mrs. Hudson’s crooning yelp as her body began to shake and draw taut, and Sherlock could feel her tighten and throb, around his fingers and against his mouth. He worked her hard with everything he had, holding his breath as she involuntarily pulled his hair and pressed him against her. All Sherlock’s attention was centered in his body and hers, the duelling sensations of Irene’s harness chafing his reddened skin, the probe filling him deeply with pressure and pleasure inside, and Mrs. Hudson shaking and sobbing around him as she came hard and hot and wet and fierce, chasing every pulse of ecstasy. Sherlock clutched her thigh and squeezed and held her in place to finish his last strokes and drink up the last waves.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Mrs. Hudson kept exclaiming softly as she stroked Sherlock’s hair. Gently he kissed her labia, again and again, and then leaned forward as far as he could in Irene’s grip to move up her belly, and shakily, she leaned forward to let him kiss her breasts through the sexy purple bra. She turned his face up - flushed, wet, slick, his beautiful lips swollen and red - and she leaned in and kissed him, tasting herself clear and strong in his mouth. “Oh, you did so well. That was absolutely wonderful.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sherlock murmured. “Thank you for allowing it.”

“So you’re satisfied he’s made amends?” asked Irene, kneeling up and lightly biting Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I think we should let him have his reward.”

“Very well. Plug in or out, Sherlock?”

“In, please,” Sherlock said, his voice raspy and wrecked. “It . . . won’t take long. I’m so close. Let me climax, please, it almost hurts now.”

“Almost?” Irene asked, sounding a little disappointed. But she was teasing. “You poor thing. You’ve worked so hard.”

“Go on then, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said encouragingly. “Touch yourself. Let me watch. It’s okay.”

Sherlock needed no more coaxing as his hand dropped to his straining, vein-swollen cock. Mrs. Hudson reached over the chair arm to drop a sheet of newspaper down under him. “So you don’t make a mess, dear,” she said.

And that little edge of humiliation did it for him, beautifully, as his hand flew up and down on his shaft, pumping frantically - as his other hand lowered to give little cradling squeezes to his tightening bollocks - as Irene throbbed the probe inside him and reached up her latex-gloved hands to pinch and tug his nipples. Sherlock gave a sharp, broken-off cry and shot white strands of come all over his hands and his belly, dripping onto the newspaper, taut and writhing where Irene impaled him.

When his gasps subsided at last, Mrs. Hudson cradled his head against her bosom, whispering to him softly as Irene slowly and carefully withdrew her tool and wiped him ever so gently, dropping light kisses along his lower back.

And perhaps it was all of them to blame for not hearing the footsteps - but perhaps those particular footsteps were now such a permanent, organic part of the weird life at 221B Baker Street that they hardly merited notice. Nonetheless, all of them were caught shockingly off guard when John Watson burst the door open and stood there gaping like a goldfish as he took in the decadent tableau.

Long still moments hung silent. John gave an indignant little sniff. “I only just ate her out _this morning,_ Sherlock! To apologise for breaking her china and waking her up when I had to throw Roylott down the stairs.”

“A lady of a certain age has needs, John,” Mrs. Hudson said regally. “And just between us, you boys have a lot to apologise for.”


End file.
